That wasn't a hug
by Scar7
Summary: Brendan persuades his sister to leave for Belfast. He's all alone, now. Or he isn't? Written after Friday's E4 06. 29. 2012


**Autor: Scar**

**Beta-reader/editor: Hannival Kinney**

**genre: introspective, melancholic**

**Characters: Brendan Brady, Ste Hay**

**Rating: K+**

**Summary: Brendan persuades his sister to leave for Belfast. He's all alone, now. Or he isn't?**

** Written after Friday's E4 (06. 29. 2012)**

* * *

******That wasn't a hug**  


**XOX**

**.**

**.**

You're sitting on the couch; the same one where a week ago you closed Lynsey's eyes, not imagining she wouldn't have opened them anymore. Your gaze is lost in the black screen of the tv and a glass of Jameson is firm in your hand. Cheryl went to Belfast a week ago and you feel quieter since then, but the coldness... it doesn't want to leave you alone.

You swallow a big sip, hoping that icy feeling you feel in your flesh will abandon you for a moment.

Sampson didn't show up during that week as you expected, perhaps as you hoped, actually; and the expectation that something big could happen at any moment it's killing you.

For this reason, when you hear a soft knock at the door you jump on the cushions, as if you were an ordinary kid, like Joel.

You have a clear suspicion about who is it.

Sampson wouldn't have certainly knocked.

It's him of course: the little boy who shattered your heart like you did with his letter. The love letter. The one that made you feel more angrier than ever, but now... now it's over. You don't want fight anymore. For him, at least.

You know what he might want.

Sorrow for you, for your loss, made him change his mind, and for days he has tried to convince you to go at the deli and eat everything you like.

You hate the way his eyes are looking at you these days. You hate his sympathy towards you, while just a week ago he would have gladly ran you over with a car, had he had one.

"Stephen!" you tell him, with the most uncaring tone you're capable of. "At what do I owe this pleasure ?"

"You know..." he replies simply.

"Do I?"

"When was the last time ya had a proper meal?"

"For God's sake, Stephen, do ye think you're me mother?"

He remains impassive and in the end you are the first one who gives in.

"I don't remember" you tell him, "but I bet you do, don't ye?"

And then again, that pitiful gaze you hate, but that makes you feel weird shivers along your back.

"I brought you some paninis, they're your favorites."

He gives you a bag with the Carter & Hay's logo printed on it.

"Put it on the coffee table, please, I've already got everything a Irish single man needs, at the moment: gay porn and a bottle of the best whiskey."

You recognize in his eyes a gleam of bewilderment. Less than one year ago, an assertion like this would have made your bones blanch, after all.

He obeys and puts the bag on the table.

You thank him casually, while you grip the remote, with the intention to zap for the umpteenth time.

You aren't even looking in his direction, but you expect to hear the sound of the front door close at any moment; all that you hear, though, is the soft thud of a body sitting on the sofa and Stephen's unmistakable breath in your ear.

"How are ya?" he asks.

You snort annoyed.

"Why can't you just go away and leave me alone, Stephen? Why don't you go back to your little Douglas to play the perfect couple? Why don't you just... forget about me?"

Then you look straight in his eye.

"I did it a long ago"you finish.

His lips tremble, and you are not capable to hate his eyes now, but God only knows that you wish it with all your heart.

"Doug reminded me when I hugged you in the street: he didn't like that. We fought a bit."

You pretend that you don't give a flying fuck. You know how to play this part well.

You make a wry smile and an inkling of a laugh escapes from your mouth. This is strange, because it's been a week since you last laughed, and it's not even pleasant. It burns your tongue and hurts your throat. You are scared that the cause of this sudden pain might be something else, though.

"That wasn't a hug, Stephen" you begin quietly. "You've only stopped me from beating that doctor up. And I would have done it for you too. You kept me out of trouble. Are ye waiting to be thanked for this?"

He looks at you with his eyes that even wetter than before; now they seem like two wet gems. It's a sight that makes your throat hurt, and you realize that it's not because of the laugh or half a bottle of whiskey that you drank for half an hour.

It's him the problem.

Simple as that.

You just want him to leave. You get up and he does the same at the same time.

"Okay, Stephen. Thanks for..."

You cannot finish. He loops his arms around your neck as you remain petrified.

"You're right" he whispers against your ear. "That wasn't a hug. But this is".

Your heart start running in your chest while the coldness of a few minutes ago seems to melt into damp shivers along all your body against warmth of his skin.

There was a time you would have paid for a hug like this; in fact, you did.

Eighty thousand pounds.

In cash.

Suddenly you hear your heart banging in your ears like the sound of a gun shot.

You roughly grip Stephen's wrists and push him away from you.

"What the hell are you doing?" you ask icily.

"Brendan" he splutters. "I just-"

"What, Stephen?" you bark. "What?

You are shaking in the effort to not to use your hands.

"Get out of my face! And don't dare come back!" you growl.

"Brendan... I"

"What did you think, eh? That I'd take you back after you slept with that shitty Yank? Ye were wrong, mate".

He stays silent, looking at you as if you hadn't never acted this way with him before. He seems younger and so vulnerable. It hurts like hell.

"Get out right now!"

He hesitates.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" you shout.

And finally he capitulates, giving you a glance like the thousand ones that you have learned to read in every expression of his face for a year now.

You are almost satisfied when he furiously slams the door behind him.

You think it's okay because he will be safe, even if that means losing him forever.

You're back on the couch, not thinking of the remote, the tv or some bloody whiskey. You stay there, your eyes closed. Then, at a certain point, slowly, you raise your arms and start stroking the skin of your own shoulders.

This is not a hug, but for a while you have the pathetic illusion that Stephen's arms are still around you to save you from yourself.


End file.
